The tattooed Crow

and I go way back,

longer than almost anybody I remember,

save for immediate family

and a girl I loved named Jo.

Tattooed Crow, tattooed crow,

once a skinny Birmingham boy

to whom the words of cars,

machines, 50s beat,

and Elvis were the product

of a life I could not imagine,

not giving a damn about how

an engine worked or the days

of music long since past,

or of Rugby, a game that wasn’t

mine to enjoy,